


Returns

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-29
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 03:37:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13515801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: d'Artagnan has just got out of the army, what the hell is he going to do now? Constance has the best ever suggestion.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this has a second bit, I've written it but need to revise it. Thanks to myhamsterisademon for reading and cheering me on and getting me motivated to post this thing :)

I

When d'Artagnan gets out of the army, he's twenty-four and has no idea what to do with himself. He goes home and hangs around until Constance goes batty and yells at him and throws cushions at him. They end up lying on the kitchen floor laughing, but he gets the idea that he needs to do something other than mooching around the house. He does activities, for a while, but he's not really the kind of person who can go to art groups and support groups and yoga.

“What am I going to do?” he asks Constance, face planted in the table, arms hanging down, to show his despair.

“Get a job?” Constance suggests. “Get a hobby? Do a degree?”

“MORE school?? No. What kind of job?”

“The Co-Op down the road's looking,” Constance says.

“No.”

“Pizza Express in town?”

“No.”

“Charlie, I am very very happy that you managed to go six years in army without getting blown up, but if you keep on like this, I'm gonna put you in the ground myself.”

“Right. Six years. I have an idea.”

“Uh-oh.”

“No, it's a good one. I can-”

“I have a better idea. Go on Facebook and see if you can find out where Aramis is these days, and go find him. Then see if you can find out where Porthos is, and go find him, and then between the three of you you can probably find Athos. I'm sure those three'll be pleased to hear you're alive and well, and to see you, and they'll have advice.”

d'Artagnan sits up, heart beating harder, grin spreading unconsciously over his face. He jumps up and kisses Constance, then runs to the office to use her computer and do exactly as suggested.

 

II

Aramis is easy to find, he's all over social media publicising his church and the charity work they do and the community music, theatre and campaign events. d'Artagnan gets a train to London, then a bus, then another bus, then walks into the small church. There's no one there and d'Artagnan wonders if he should, as Constance suggested, have called ahead. Then Bazin comes out with a stack of chairs and d'Artagnan grins.

“Baz!” d'Artagnan calls.

“Oh. Who are you? No one calls me that,” Bazin says, scowling at d'Artagnan.

“Charles d'Artagnan. We served together, along with Aramis, five years ago?”

“Right, I remember you. What do you want?”

“I'm looking for Aramis, actually,” d'Artagnan says. “Is he around?”

“No.”

“Oh. Um, do you know where I might find him? Or, could I have his number?” d'Artagnan says. “I found him on Facebook but he didn't reply to my message.”

“Maybe he doesn't want to see you,” Bazin says, still scowling.

“Bazin who are you talking to?” Aramis says, wandering out eating an apple.

d'Artagnan's grin, which had been flagging, finds new life. Aramis has long hair, which is different. He's very hairy in general, with a moustache and beard and his hair's long enough to be pulled back into a pony tail. There are other changes- new lines, a new scar on his cheek. He looks happy, though, and brighter. Aramis spots d'Artagnan and frowns, then it clears into an astounded, joyful look.

“Well I'll be,” Aramis says, softly. “d'Artagnan!”

d'Artagnan laughs quietly and they meet in the middle of the entry-way in a fierce, happy embrace.

“What are you doing here!? Did you just walk in? d'Artagnan. Four years, brother! What have you been doing with yourself? What happened to staying in touch with me, you arse?” Aramis says, not pulling away from the hug.

“I came here looking for you,” d'Artagnan says. “Connie got fed up with me moping around the house and I couldn't decide what to do with myself, so she suggested I look you inseparables up again.”

Aramis pulls back and holds d'Artagnan by the chin, examining his face then he laughs and embraces him again.

“What do you mean, you didn't know what to do with yourself? No, no, actually, come on. Let's get out of here. Bazin, you can manage, right? Call in Hannah if you need another pair of hands,” Aramis says. “Come on. I'll show you where I live. What time is it?”

“Um… ten past four?”

“Great. Come on. We're walking, it's not far.”

Aramis takes d'Artagnan through to a small office, first, and gets his stuff together while d'Artagnan goggles at the dog collar and priest's robes which apparently belong to Aramis. They walk arm in arm through the quiet street and Aramis repeats his question about why d'Artagnan was trying to think of things to do.

“I got out,” d'Artagnan says. “Gave in my papers. I'm a free man, now.”

“Oh! Good for you. It is good? You weren't injured?”

“No, no. Just had enough, really. I gave them six years, right? That's enough. I was getting restless.”

“You're going to look up Athos and Porthos, too?” Aramis asks.

“I was hoping that you'd look them up with me and maybe even be able to tell me where I could find them?”

“I haven't seen either of them in… three years? Since I finished up my schooling and got ordained. Porthos came to watch, that's the last time I saw either of them. We kept in touch for a few months but none of us are good at that,” Aramis says. “I would be happy to get back in touch with them but I can't take a lot of time and I'd rather not leave London.”

“Why?”

“You'll see. Come on, down here.”

Aramis takes d'Artagnan to a school, walking confidently into the yard. d'Artagnan suspects some kind of community project, or art installation, but Aramis leads him to a room with 'after school club' written on the door. Aramis grins at d'Artagnan, knocks, and then walks in. There are a lot of children running around. They all look quite young. There's a TV in one corner, a table of Lego, a table with crafting things, some grown-ups.

“Aramis, hello. You're early,” one of the adults says, coming over.

“An old friend turned up unexpectedly and I leapt at the chance of escaping,” Aramis says. “Is she…?”

“Francis, your Dad's here!”

A little girl with a riot of curly hair comes running up, flinging herself at Aramis. d'Artagnan stares as Aramis sweeps her up into a hug, settling her on his hip, turning back to d'Artagnan.

“This is Frankie,” Aramis says. “My daughter. Frankie, this is d'Artagnan.”

“d'Artagnan?” Francis says, eyes going very wide. “THE d'Artagnan, Daddy?”

“Yes, sparks. THE d'Artagnan.”

“Oh my god! Hello, d'Artagnan! I know everything about you! Will you teach me to fight with a sword? Dad says you know how to do that. Can you tell me about how you beat the dragon and saved Daddy's life? And how you and Porthos swam a whole entire river to save Athos?”

“I...” d'Artagnan says, groping for something to say. “Wow.”

d'Artagnan spends the afternoon at the playground, watching Aramis and Francis, stunned. They get ice-cream afterwards and Francis repeats all the stories Aramis has told her about them all, d'Artagnan tells her a few more to add to her collection. Aramis takes d'Artagnan to a flat and makes them dinner, then they draw until Francis' bed time. When she's bathed and tucked in, Aramis settles in the kitchen, making them some coffee.

“Wow,” d'Artagnan says, smiling. “How old is she?”

“Six,” Aramis says, softly. “She… I didn't know about her, until her mother died. I've had her for three years.”

“Congratulations?”

“Yeah, it's been… it's amazing. She's amazing. I… the best thing… I love her so much,” Aramis says. “Um, you see why I can't go far, or give up lots of time, now.”

“Yes, I see. Wow. I'm a bit gobsmacked.”

“I know. I love being a Dad, though. So much. And a priest and all the things the church does, all the work with young people and the community. It feels a bit like I'm repenting for all the blood I've spilt.”

“Always were the one for religious guilt,” d'Artagnan says. “I must admit, I saw Porthos as the one who would go for kids.”

“I know. He hasn't even met Francis, neither of them have. Just Bazin and he's a grumpy, sanctimonious- anyway. He's great, actually, but he's not… not one of us.”

“So. Shall we go on Facebook and try and track down the other two?”

“Can't imagine Athos embracing social media. Porthos, though. Yeah, let's just Google him.”

Two hours later, they still haven't found him. Aramis suddenly jumps up, snapping his fingers, and puts in 'Porthos Vallon' instead of 'Porthos Belgard'.

“His mother's name,” Aramis says. “I'd forgotten. He wanted to use it, after he met his father that time, remember? Yes, here he is!”

It's an instagram account that's pretty much just pictures of food and some theatre promotion things. It's linked to a Tumblr that seems to be obsessed with Star Wars and Elementary. Eventually they find a Facebook page but it's just got a picture of Porthos grinning, and a series of posts on the wall that say he's lost his phone, asking for someone to ring him. They send him an IM and sit back, waiting.

Five minutes later, there's a ping. They grin.

-Who's this?

-Holy shit, I just looked at your names. Aramis?! Bloody hell! You fucking lunatics! d'Art? Fucking hell!

-hey Porthos :) :) :) d'Art's out of the army and playing catch up

-Bloody hell.

-Yup. I was hoping to meet up

-Yes! Yes, yes! Aramis too? You should come visit! That's a brilliant idea. Come see me, I have a massive house and loads of food.  
-!!!!!!

Aramis and d'Artagnan laugh, clinging to one another, their joy infecting one another. Porthos gives them an address and d'Artagnan agrees to go up on the weekend, Aramis agreeing to go for the day on Sunday. Then Porthos vanishes for an hour, and Aramis and d'Artagnan drink wine and catch up, laughing a lot.

-sorry! I had to go see to the horses.

-you have horses?

-two. They're not mine but I'm looking after them tonight.

-do you even ride?  
-Aramis! Don't be rude.

-How did you know that was him?

-b cus he's rude. I have to go, I need to sleep. I will see you on Friday evening, though, d'Art, and you on Sunday, Mis. I'm excited. Shall I get you from the station?

-please. Mis might drive but I'll def be getting the train. There's one that gets in 19:00?

-Great. See you there then.

“I should go to bed, too. I can take tomorrow off work but Frankie's got to be at school at nine,” Aramis says. “We usually get up at seven.”

“Early. Wow. Um, I assumed it'd be okay to stay here?” d'Artagnan says.

“Of course, obviously. I have a spare room and everything, these days. I'll try to keep things quiet in the morning but can't make promises. Tomorrow's Wednesday, which means show and tell AND sports in the afternoon, so there's a lot going on.”

They spend the remainder of the week mosey-ing around London, doing tourist things neither of them have ever bothered with, drinking coffee, eating in interesting looking places and drinking a considerable amount of wine in the evenings. The afternoons are spent with Francis and d'Artagnan finds himself liking her. She's stroppy and head-strong and talkative, and great fun. She looks so like Aramis, sometimes.

d'Artagnan cries when they embrace on the station. He's seeing them on Sunday but he still cries. Aramis laughs at him for it but when d'Artagnan looks out of the train window to wave, he catches Aramis wiping away a tear.

 

III/IV

d'Artagnan is tired and a bit grumpy by the time the train pulls into the tiny station where Porthos lives. He's been reading and talking to Constance and he misses her, he would much prefer to stay curled up with his book than the anxiety of reconnecting with old friends. He steps onto the platform, his suitcase resting by him and looks around. Everything lifts when he spots Porthos. He's easy to spot- tall, wide-shouldered, hair in big curls around his head, smile as wide as the platform, lighting up everyone around him. He bellows when he sees d'Artagnan, running forward to lift him right off his feet, spinning them around and around with joyful roars. d'Artagnan laughs wildly, clutching at Porthos' strong shoulders.

“Porthos!” he calls, when Porthos keeps him off the ground for a long time. “It's good to see you, too, brother!”

“Oh my, oh my, d'Artagnan! d'Artagnan!” Porthos yells, a belly laugh rising up out of him. He sets d'Artagnan on his feet and pulls back. “Look at you! Just look at you. Oh, d'Artagnan. Look at you!”

“Look at you,” d'Artagnan says, admiringly, squeezing Porthos' biceps. Porthos laughs again.

“It's so good to see you. I'm quite overwhelmed, I might cry. I cried a bit already, when you messaged me, and then again today. Come on, let's go. I can cry in the car. d'Artagnan! My God it is good to see you!”

Porthos hugs him again, then lifts his bag and leads d'Artagnan to a smart looking Land Rover, chattering the whole way, interspersed with exclamations of 'd'Artagnan!'. He does indeed cry while he drives them through the countryside but he wipes the tears away and assures d'Artagnan that it's joyful, not sad.

“Just wait till Athos sees you,” Porthos says. “You're a right sight for sore eyes! You've grown right up.”

“Athos? You're still in touch with him?” d'Artagnan asks, beaming: he hasn't had much luck tracking the final inseparable down.

Porthos gives him a strange look but then he grins and points ahead, to a large gate. It's standing open and they drive through, up a long lane, winding about until a house appears. Or d'Artagnan supposes it's a house. It's huge, sprawled halfway up a hill. Porthos pulls up in front of it, a set of wide steps climbing to a heavy, double door.

“This is where you live?” d'Artagnan asks.

“Yup. Some of it. Some of it we offer out to house refugees and some of it we rent out to local farm-hands, as self contained flats. Some of it is officers, for- oh, there 'e is.”

Porthos jumps out of the car and bounds up the steps, embracing the man who just appeared at the top. d'Artagnan follows more slowly, gaping at the man. He's short, compact, and beaming at d'Artagnan, shoving Porthos away.

“Athos,” d'Artagnan whispers, tears starting in his eyes.

“Hello, Charlie,” Athos says, equally soft.

d'Artagnan throws himself up the last few steps and into Athos' arms, sobbing, laughing, clinging to him. Athos clings back just as hard. d'Artagnan shudders, trying to get a hold of himself. It's Athos, though, and d'Artagnan just stays in his arms, letting all his emotion rage its way through him, washing over him.

“Hee hee! You didn' know 'e was 'ere?” Porthos says. “Thought I'd mentioned.”

He sounds incredibly smug. Athos must pick up on that, too, because he pulls away just long enough to hit Porthos, a mostly-friendly punch to the shoulder. Porthos just giggles, slinging his arms around them both, smushing them into another hug.

“You're a complete and utter arsehole, Porthos,” Athos says, through a mouthful of d'Artagnan's hair.

“Complete,” d'Artagnan agrees.

“To be fair, I did think you knew we were still together,” Porthos says. “Until you asked if I was in touch wiv 'im.”

“Together?” d'Artagnan asks.

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “You know. Dating, romancing, doing the dirty, wed in all but na-”

“I am not marrying you, Porthos,” Athos interrupts.

“Aw,” Porthos says.

“Wait. Like boyfriends? You two? Still?” d'Artagnan says. “What? No one knew this about you!”

“They didn't?” Athos says.

“Ath, you said that everyone knew,” Porthos says. “You said you told people when you left.”

“I did. I meant Thomas, and Anne.”

“Your ex wife and your brother,” Porthos says. “Neither of whom you'd spoken to in years. Not the people we knew and actually liked?”

“Well,” Athos says. “Shut up. Charlie came to visit us.”

“He came to visit me, actually,” Porthos says. “Right, d'Art?”

d'Artagnan just sighs, leaning into Athos, blissed out and happy beyond his wildest dreams. Porthos laughs and the next thing d'Artagnan knows he's being tugged away from Athos and scooped up like a baby, Porthos bellowing with laughter. d'Artagnan shrieks as he's borne into the house in Porthos’s arms, up some stairs and to another big wooden door that's standing open.

“You left the door unlocked,” Porthos says.

“Yes,” Athos agrees.

“I've told you, Johnny keeps slipping in and nicking stuff. You can employ whoever you like but if one of them's a kleptomaniac, you keep the bloody door locked. Johnny? If you're in here, I'll eat your bloody pineapple next time you leave it in the fridge! I'll come by the office special!”

A man sidles into the hall and Porthos gives Athos a significant look, putting d'Artagnan down and folding his arms. The man, probably Johnny, tries a smile. Porthos just raises his eyebrows and gives him a look d'Artagnan is sure comes straight from Treville. Johnny pulls his hands out of his pockets and hands Porthos a bracelet, a folded piece of paper, a phone, and a blister pack of paracetamol. Porthos accepts the bounty and moves aside, and Johnny jogs off.

“Oops,” Athos says. “Come in, d'Artagnan. This is our part of the house. It's the bit which gets most sunshine.”

Athos shows d'Artagnan off a big, luxurious flat. Athos rolls his eyes at the over-stuffed furniture, the elaborate decoration, the huge paintings. Porthos trails after them, grinning, pointing out the more over the top aspects, such as the gold-leaf frame around a painting of a cavalier, the beautifully made Fabergé egg replicas, the ornate screen partition.

“Porthos Decorates,” Athos says. “All the time. I can't talk him out of it.”

“Do you want sommat to eat?” Porthos asks, ignoring that. “I can make you something.”

“He also cooks. All the time,” Athos says.

“The horses are yours, aren't they?” d'Artagnan says, putting two and two together. “And you work from here?”

“Yup. He runs an office from downstairs. Immigration lawyers,” Porthos says, beaming proudly.

“What about you, what are you doing these days?” d'Artagnan asks Porthos.

Porthos shrugs and turns, leading d'Artagnan to a big, clean, beautifully appointed kitchen. He shows d'Artagnan a lot of weird looking implements and tools, and, when d'Artagnan admits that he hasn't eaten yet, makes them risotto. Athos pours them wine and they sit around the table in the kitchen.

“After dinner, bed,” Athos says, firmly.

“Ah, nope,” Porthos says, smiling. “Gotta hear about d'Artagnan. Gotta hear everything.”

“You'll make yourself ill,” Athos says.

“Shush. Tell us about Aramis,” Porthos says.

“He's got a kid!” d'Artagnan says, a little drunk. “Oh, right, told you that on Facebook. She's adorable, she's got curly curly hair and his expressions. She's so grumpy, you'll like her Athos.”

“I'm not grumpy,” Athos says.

“You do seem to smile more,” d'Artagnan agrees easily, smiling. Athos smiles back, face soft and fond and so open. The other two look older but Athos looks younger, by years and years. “Aramis does loads of churchy things, basically.”

“Did...” Porthos trails off, frowning.

“Porthos?” Athos says, sitting up, face closing. “Porthos.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Porthos says, waving him away. “Bed time. Got it. I'll see you in the morning, d'Artagnan. Bossy boots has spoken and I must obey. It's so good to have you here, I'm so happy to see you and that you're well, and that you're here!”

d'Artagnan gets up to give Porthos a hug and Porthos sighs himself happily into d'Artagnan's arms. He cuddles for a while, until Athos clears his throat.

“Right. Goodnight, d'Art. Take your time, don't let Athos try to escape too early. You'll just bug me, Ath, really. I'll just sleep.”

“Night love,” Athos says, leaning back in his chair to accept a kiss as Porthos passes, hand reaching out to touch Porthos' back and falling away as Porthos goes.

“So,” d'Artagnan says, when Porthos is definitely out of ear shot. “What was that about?”

“He gets tired,” Athos says. “He hurt himself, and he gets tired.”

“Simplistic, but acceptable,” d'Artagnan says. “Is he okay?”

“Yes, mostly.”

“Good. Immigration law?”

“It's what I studied, before the army,” Athos says. “I kind of fell into it, it was actually Porthos' fault; he was working at one of the detention centres and asked my advice for one of the people he was trying to help. I enjoyed it so… here we are a few years later. We offer an address, so people can get out of detention and have more of a chance at living, I work on making sure they're not deported, as far as I can. It's a work in progress more than something established, we're still working on getting out there and figuring what people need, how we can best deploy our resources. Porthos talks about it as if it's all set up. We're getting there.”

“What was Porthos doing? At the detention centre, I mean.”

“Art,” Athos says, grinning. “He was running art courses. Do not ask how he ended up with that job, I have no idea. Who knew he could draw? He's pretty good actually I've got one of his up, in my office. I'll show you if you like. He has terrible taste in furniture and décor and, really, everything, but I like the things he paints.”

“I'd like to see,” d'Artagnan says.

Athos shows him and d'Artagnan stares. It's a plank of wood, covered in colours. From far away it's a face, from close up it's just colour. The eyes blaze.

“It's a friend of ours,” Athos says. “Samara. It really looks like her.”

“It's wonderful,” d'Artagnan says.

Athos nods, sipping his wine and gazing at it with d'Artagnan.

 

V

d'Artagnan sits on the steps, on the Sunday. Porthos and Athos’s house has land around it, the house is on the side of a hill and from the front d’Artagnan can look down and out. He can see to the gate, it’s not that far maybe a five-minute walk. The trees sprawl and meander their way out across what d’Artagnan thinks might be the line of the border of the house’s lands – Athos said it was a stream, and then beyond is farmland in an achingly familiar patchwork. These fields are far bigger than his father’s, who had been all about hedgerows and protecting animal habitats and taught d’Artagnan about birds and hedgehogs and all the things that lived in their carefully kept hedges. d'Artagnan can still spot what crop is in the field, what stage of rotation things are at, what’s being grazed. He brings his gaze closer in and looks to the left, where there’s a low dry-stone wall around a garden full of flowers. Porthos was out there, this morning, Athos stood on the steps here with coffee watching him. d'Artagnan had found them and stood with Athos. The others have long since gone back inside. d'Artagnan thinks that might be Porthos’s garden; it’s a riot of colours but d’Artagnan recognises, alongside the flowers, vegetables and other kitchen garden things – yellow courgettes, cucumbers, lettuce and tomatoes. It seems very Porthos. Beyond the garden, further down the hill, is a rough field with show-jumps and then stables, another field hugging the hill and disappearing around it. Athos’s horses are out, now, grazing. As d’Artagnan turns again to look out over the trees he sees a car coming up the road. He gets to his feet, beaming, and jogs down the steps to wait, watching it wind up the lane. 

Constance is out and running to him laughing before the taxi’s fully stopped, embracing him warm and tight and familiar. d'Artagnan breathes in her familiar smell, her shampoo and perfume and deodorant and… also trains and sweat and travelling. He laughs and she laughs back. He pulls away to hold her face and kiss her welcome then hugs her again, before pulling away to look at her. It’s only been a week but he still missed her and takes her in, amazed at how good she looks and feels and sounds. She’s wearing jeans and a hoody that is his but she claimed it during his last deployment and he has yet to pry it away from her since he came home. Her hair’s down, nothing done to it today, long and tangly and curly around her beaming face. 

“Hi,” he says, biting his lip. 

“Hi,” she says, huffing out a quiet half laugh, holding his forearms and getting up on tiptoes to kiss him again. “Hello.”

They’re interrupted by a crash of the front door opening and Porthos hurrying down the steps and barrelling into them, breaking them apart and hugging Constance. d'Artagnan snorts at the dramatics and exchanges an amused look with Athos, who’s followed Porthos more sedately. Carrying a pair of shoes. d'Artagnan looks and finds Porthos’s feet bare. He’s also in nothing but a t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. He’d been dressed, earlier. 

“Porthos, shoes,” Athos says, tapping Porthos’s shoulder. 

Porthos turns away from Constance to grin and wink at d’Artagnan as he shoves his feet into the trainers Athos brought, and to put on the jumper Athos brought, and to kiss Athos and laugh at Athos. 

“How did you even know she was here? You were napping?” Athos says, pushing Porthos gently out of the way and holding out his hand to Constance. “Hi, Constance, welcome.”

She of course laughs at his hand and embraces him: Athos is a cuddler, everyone knows it, he just thinks it’s impolite to assume or ask. Or he’d used to be anyway. 

“Is this still okay?” Constance asks, belatedly. 

“Yes,” Athos says. “Luckily.”

“Oh shut up. It’s good to see you but I’m mad at the lot of you,” Constance says, not letting Athos go. Porthos grumbles at being left out and hugs her around Athos. d’Artagnan isn’t going to be the only one not involved so he hugs her from behind, so they’re all in a little knot. 

“Why are you mad?” d’Artagnan asks. 

“Could’ve done with a friend or two with this one buggering off!” Constance says. d'Artagnan hears a little ‘oops’ from Athos and Porthos must too because he laughs, arms tightening. 

“You had plenty of friends,” Porthos says. “If you had actually needed us you only had to ask.”

“True. My annoyance is mild,” Constance says. “Um, I haven’t paid the taxi or got my bags or anything yet.”

They all let go and while Constance is paying, another taxi draws up and Aramis climbs out, going around and bending to lift Francis out. She loops her arms around his neck seeing so many people and buries her face in his shoulder. He pays the taxi and gets his bags before coming over. He opens his mouth to say hello but Porthos lets out a stifled sound of distress and hugs him before he can. Aramis squawks, then laughs and extracts a hand to hold Porthos, the other arm keeping Francis.

“Porthos,” Aramis says, a soft exclamation of surprise as if he hadn’t, somehow, expected him. “Good to see you my friend.”

“Aramis!” Porthos says, a wail of happiness and misery, and he bursts into noisy tears, clinging to Aramis. It sets Francis off too and Athos and d’Artagnan look at each other before bursting out laughing – Aramis looks entirely bewildered. 

“Oh god, you two,” Constance clucks, coming over and untangling Francis from the mix. She yells at being unstuck from her father but Constance ticks her tongue and holds her carefully so she can see everyone. “I’m Constance, I saw you on Skype the other day when me and your father tried and failed to co-ordinate our journeys.”

Francis clearly remembers – she loops her arms around Constance’s neck instead of Aramis’s and snuffles, head laid trustingly against Constance’s shoulder. Athos puts an arm around Porthos’s waist and helps Aramis not topple over until the weight. Athos waits, then sighs and shifts so he can get his cheek against Porthos’s hair, whispering to him until he lets Aramis go and stands, rubbing at his face. Aramis rubs tears off his own cheeks and half reaches for Porthos before letting his hands drop. 

“Porthos,” he says again, softly. 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, letting out a little shaky laugh. “It’s me. Hi.”

“I know it’s you, idiot,” Aramis says. “I meant… how did we lose touch? You’re dating Athos? On God’s good green Earth why?” 

Porthos looks uncertainly at Athos. 

“He’s joking,” Athos supplies. 

Porthos laughs again then stares at Aramis then cups his face and turns him this way and that to get a good look, presses their foreheads together, embraces him again. Athos keeps a hand on Porthos’s back until Porthos straightens. Then Athos lets him go and turns to Aramis in his turn, hugging him and cradling his head and pressing close, laughing happily, holding him long moments before letting him go. Porthos comes over to d’Artagnan and tugs until d’Artagnan hugs him. 

“I missed all you lot,” Porthos says. 

“I missed you too,” d’Artagnan says, though he’s not sure it’s true. It’s not untrue, he just hasn’t really had time to think much over the years beyond doing his duty and his job. He had missed Porthos a couple of time, missed having his bravery and strength at his back, missed his wit and his quick thinking in a tight spot. Oh yeah he’d definitely missed that quick strategizing mind coming up with clever plans at the drop of a hat. “I missed you.”

“Ha,” Porthos says, softly, smugly, catching the sudden rush of genuine emotion. “Good boy.”

“Patronizing wanker,” d’Artagnan counters, without any heat, tightening his hold on Porthos. 

“I should say hi to Aramis’s baby,” Porthos says, standing straight, rubbing away more tears. He grins a little self-deprecatingly. “Maybe get another hug from Aramis first though.”

“Yes, I am waiting my turn patiently,” Aramis says, and Porthos turns into his arms, laughing. 

Athos settles by d’Artagnan again, watching. d'Artagnan wraps an arm around Athos’s waist and leans a little into him, grinning, looking at Constance. She smiles back, amused at their ridiculous reunion. She’s got Francis unburied from her shoulder now, with a juice carton from somewhere, examining Constance’s hair – she’s probably got designs on it. She’d done d’Artagnan’s on the kitchen floor one evening, he recognises the glint in her eyes. Constance sets her down, crouching too and pointing things out around them. Eventually Aramis and Porthos unstick themselves and go over, Francis at once holding up her arms to be lifted. Aramis picks her up with a groan at how heavy and big she is and turns to Porthos. 

“This is my daughter, my Frankie,” Aramis says, beaming with pride at the little girl. 

“I’m Porthos,” Porthos says, hand over his heart, giving her a serious look. “I’ve heard a lot about you from d’Artagnan, I’m glad to finally meet you, I made cookies.”

Her eyes light up and she lets go of Aramis, wriggling down and holding up a hand for Porthos to take, willing to be lead at once to the cookies by the god of cookies. Porthos is for sure the god of all baked goods. Or used to be. He also used to be so soft and kind and open with the kids, making instant and easy connections with them. Now he looks around for Athos, who hurries over and crouches to introduce himself to Francis. She obediently takes his hand instead of Porthos’s and Athos leads them all inside with her, up to the flat. Porthos brings up the rear, panting on the stairs. d'Artagnan waits for him and offers assistance but Porthos just laughs. 

“I can still do stairs, pup,” Porthos says, letting go the bannister and bounding up to d’Artagnan, getting him in a headlock and dragging him up the rest of way setting him yelling and squirming to escape. 

They tumble into the flat and to the floor, laughing, d’Artagnan sprawls on his back and lies there quite content, Porthos at his side, breathing a little hard still but also laughing and looking quite happy where he is. 

“Aramis’s kid is like him,” Porthos whispers, head turned to d’Artagnan. “Stubborn, headstrong. Bossy.”

They laugh, Porthos kicking the door shut with a bang. Their noise brings Francis, three cookies held in one hand. She yells in delight and jumps on d’Artagnan, clambering over him and getting her hands into his ticklish spots. She’s six, which is old enough to just about be able to actually tickle and d’Artagnan shrieks and squirms much to Porthos’s amusement. Francis turns her attentions on him, getting off d’Artagnan and standing, hands on hips, surveying Porthos. Porthos holds up a hand. 

“Now, wait a minute,” he says, playfully afraid, setting Francis laughing. 

Francis tells him off for laughing at d’Artagnan then dives in. Porthos becomes a giant and they’ve got firmly into a game, so d’Artagnan gets up, grinning when he is in possession of two of the cookies, and heads for the kitchen. Porthos plays with Francis for an hour, in which time Aramis sprawls happily at the table, him and Athos and d’Artagnan talking quickly, over one another, laughing too much, drinking a lot of coffee and eating a lot of cookies. Constance sits by d’Artagnan, leaning into his side, playing on her phone. She joins in the conversation now and then, listens, and then chats with someone (maybe Ninon, d’Artagnan thinks, she has a ‘Ninon’ look about her, she has a particular smile) when she doesn’t have anything to say or isn’t interested in their catching up with people she doesn’t know. Porthos comes in after an hour and sits heavily next to Athos, Francis trailing disappointedly behind him. She climbs onto his lap. 

“Aw, nah, I’m sorry kitten, I’m tuckered out,” Porthos says, giving her a cuddle then nudging her gently off and in the direction of Aramis. 

“Come over here, sparks, let’s get you some lunch and then you can do some colouring in,” Aramis says, getting her set up with a lunch box and another juice, a bottle of water. 

She eats obediently but makes a fuss about the colouring until Constance switches places with d’Artagnan to do some with her. Aramis relaxes with a smile and sits forward.

“You might lie down for a bit,” Athos says, brushing the hair off Porthos’s forehead and kissing him. “Mm?”

“I’m fine,” Porthos says, pouting until he grins. “Really Athos.”

“Ok,” Athos says. 

“We’ve heard all about your job and your weird cases and the people you’ve met,” Aramis says to Athos, then turns to Porthos. “What about you? I think we three have more or less got up to date, I’m at church, done my ‘priestly education’ as d’Artagnan called it, d’Artagnan’s been in the army, I’ve got Franks, Athos is all about his little business and saving the world. What about Porthos?”

“Are we getting any lunch, babes? Or just Francis?” Porthos asks, turning to Athos. “Maybe I will have a nap after all.”

“You’re going to have to tell them something at some point,” Athos says. Then adds, with a disgusted look, “’babes’.”

“A’righ’ a’righ’,” Porthos grumbles. “There’s nothing to tell, anyway. Like Athos said to d’Artagnan, I hurt myself, and now I get tired.”

“Not asking for details of whatever that is about,” Aramis says. “Just tell us whatever you want, if that’s nothing that’s fine by me. Leave me with a ten-year gap in our wonderful beautiful enduring friendship!”

Porthos laughs and reaches over to ruffle Aramis’s hair, tugging it out of its ponytail and making a right mess. They squabble about hair for a few moments before Porthos settles back. 

“I just haven’t got much to tell,” he says, a little sad. “You’ve all got great stories and stuff, and I haven’t got much to add.”

“You decorate,” Athos says, sounding disgusted again. Porthos grins. 

“I do that,” he agrees. 

“You made the kitchen garden,” Athos says. “He lets the people who stay help themselves, in return for help growing things.”

“Yeah,” Porthos agrees, flushing a little. 

“He paints, which I actually like unlike the decoration no Porthos I do not like having everything gold fucking hell,” Athos says, rolling right over Porthos when he opens his mouth, making Porthos chuckle. 

“You paint?” Aramis asks. 

“I do,” Porthos says. “Did a bit of like, Art therapy type jobs for a while.”

“Fudging together experience and qualifications,” Athos mutters, making them all grin. 

“I’m good at it,” Porthos says. “Got into the habit from after we got out, we did art stuff in the veterans’ programme.”

“I hated that,” d’Artagnan grumbles. 

“Me too,” Aramis says, fervently. “Got out of that quick as I could.”

“Oh yeah don’t tell me you’ve had zero therapy I won’t believe you,” Porthos scoffs. “You’re way nicer than you ever used to be, way less of that all strangled with guilt shite.”

“Charming,” Aramis says, but inclines his head. “I do go to therapy.”

“Ha,” Porthos says, pleased with himself for guessing right. “So do I, Athos makes me.”

Athos makes a face then sighs and nods, shrugging as if to say ‘yes ok fine this one I will take from you’. Porthos knits his fingers with Athos’s and Athos softens. 

“What else have you been doing?” Athos asks, tone cajoling. 

“Oh Athos, don’t,” Porthos mutters, ducking his head, embarrassed.

“It’s cool,” Athos says, genuine enthusiasm breaking his dry sarcasm and making him like a little kid, shifting in his chair like Francis, bouncing a tiny bit. “Come on, Porthos, tell them.”

“Doing an amateur dramatics thing down in the town,” Porthos admits, face scrunching up. “I did some sets for them, for the Christmas panto last year, and… well. I’m going to be Prospero in the Tempest next month.”

“That is cool!” d’Artagnan agrees. “Can we come watch it?”

“No!” Porthos says at the same time as Athos says, more firmly and more loudly, “yes.”

“Francis loves going to see plays,” Aramis says. 

“Yep,” Francis says, hearing her name and nodding along before going back to her drawing, head bent close to Constance’s, kneeling on her chair. “I’m busy dad.”

“Sorry, sparks,” Aramis says, reaching over to stroke her hair and smile at her a moment. 

“Busy,” Francis says, scowling at him until he looks away, badly suppressed laughter making him chuff and beam at them. 

“Just like her father,” Porthos says. “I wasn’t kidding about lunch Athos.”

“Yes there is lunch,” Athos says, indicating the cupboards around them. Porthos droops and rests his head ever so gently on Athos’s shoulder. “No.”

“I’m tired,” Porthos says. 

“No,” Athos says. 

Porthos sighs. 

“Fine,” Athos says, and gets up. 

Aramis and d’Artagnan exchange amused glances and Porthos winks as Athos sets food on the table and glowers. Porthos catches him and kisses his stomach, looks up at him until Athos bends and kisses his lips. d'Artagnan looks away, it’s so intimate. Aramis doesn’t look away for a moment, drinking it all in. When Porthos is done with Athos Aramis leans over and wraps his arms around Porthos and they both do a bit more crying. 

“Right before lunch, too,” Porthos says, sniffing as Aramis pulls away to wipe his eyes with his sleeve. 

“Crying gets up the appetite,” Aramis says. 

“Makes me sad,” Porthos says. “Now I’m too sad to eat.”

“Nonsense!” d’Artagnan cries. “Look at us all together again! How can you be sad?” 

Porthos beams at him and sure enough when Athos is done and sits back down, Porthos eats his fair share and more. They all talk around mouthfuls, remembering things to tell each other, unable to keep from interrupting and laughing and reaching out to touch hands or, in Porthos’s case, annoying ruffle people’s hair. After lunch they sit around the living-room and do more of the same until Constance and Francis come to remind them that they’re all here for a purpose, not just to, in Francis’s words, ‘go gooey everywhere and make a mess with crying’. She gives her father a hard hug and then hurries off with Constance to see the horses. Athos gets up to follow them making noises about riding but Porthos tugs him back onto the sofa. 

“You want our advice?” Aramis asks d’Artagnan, leaning forward. 

“Not really,” d’Artagnan says. “Well, yes, but not… really. I looked you up for fun. Constance thought you might have some thoughts about navigating… this. It’s six years of my life, I was eighteen when I joined up, what am I meant to do now?”

“I was in for ten years,” Porthos says, smiling. “It’s definitely odd to suddenly not be a soldier anymore. I thought I was gonna crash and burn, thought I’d be terrible at anything else. I puttered around the vets programme for way longer than I needed, Athos already off to retrain. Or to finish training, only took him two years. It took me a while to work out what I wanted. Just take your time, try stuff, don’t get disillusioned when it’s not what you expect. Jobs are super weird.”

Athos snorts but nods his agreement. The others have their own advice and d’Artagnan listens, eventually, haltingly, admitting his fears and worries. He doesn’t know what he’s good at, he’s got no qualifications, nothing seems to be something that’ll get him a good salary so he can buy Constance a house and marry her properly. Nothing feels right, either, it all feels weird. He doesn’t really like people, they’re all kind of grey, none of them have been anywhere or done anything. 

“Well that’s not true,” Aramis says. “I meet people all the time who do all kinds of weird and wonderful things. NGO and not-for-profit sector might be a good fit. You can always find adventurous things to do, and help out people while you do them.”

“Just research, make sure you’re actually helping and not just… voluntourism,” Athos says. 

“Voluntourism,” Porthos says, poking Athos. “You did a portmanteau and a nice shiny pop one too.”

“Shut up and go nap,” Athos grumbles. 

“That’s his answer whenever I annoy him,” Porthos says. “It’s a good suggestion though, the volunteering not the napping the nap is a terrible suggestion. Are you needing to work right now?”

“Not at once,” d’Artagnan says. “I have some saved and… my Dad left me some. He died.”

“I am sorry, I liked him a lot,” Aramis says. 

d'Artagnan feels his eyes sting and he’s at once enveloped in their various embraces, soft murmured condolences brushed into his hair, kisses pressed to his brow. He leans into it all and sighs, accepting the affection. 

“It’s ok,” d’Artagnan says. “I’m ok.”

“You don’t have to be,” Porthos says. “I’m not.”

“Nor am I, really,” Athos says. 

“Or me,” Aramis says. 

“Bunch of cranks the lot of us,” Porthos says, and d’Artagnan can feel his irrepressive smile. 

d'Artagnan sinks into the warmth and breathes, letting himself be not-quite-entirely-fine, safe, knowing that these guys get it, that it’s okay.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: m/h and disability talked about? s that a wanring thing?

VI

Athos breathes out in relief when all the people are in bed. Aramis decided to stay the night afterall so he and Francis are bedded down in the livingroom. d'Artagnan and Constance are in the room d’Artagnan stayed in last night and Constance has to be up early to get home for an afternoon shift at work tomorrow. Athos has work tomorrow but Porthos promises he’ll be fine and dandy to play host. Athos looks at him now, sprawled on the bed, stripped to just his jeans. He came up about an hour and a half ago. Athos sighs. He’s really happy to see Aramis and d’Artagnan, to be back in touch, but he wishes Porthos would take things slower, sometimes. Not just pack their home full of people and tire himself out on being happy. Athos smiles and laughs softly to himself, deciding that afterall it’s not the worst thing to tire one’s self out doing, making one’s self deliriously happy. He undresses quietly and sits on the edge of the bed, rubbing over the small of Porthos’s back, bending to kiss his shoulder, pushing his hair away to see his face. Porthos opens his eyes, shifting so he’s not quite so smushed into the bed, and gives Athos a tired look. 

“Yeah I know but you’re wearing jeans, you’ll fuss at me forever if I let you sleep in these,” Athos says. “I’ll help, you just need to, probably sitting up’ll be easiest.”

Porthos nods and wraps an arm around Athos’s shoulders so Athos can heave him up to sit, laughing as Athos works, hoarse and tired but still happy. Athos kneels before him, between his thighs, and cradles his face. Porthos looks blearily down at him. 

“God you look happy,” Athos whispers. Porthos nods. “Ok then. Ok.”

Porthos plays with Athos’s hair as Athos gets his flies undone but when he has to stand up a bit so Athos can get his clothes over his bum Porthos’s face crumples. He does as he’s told and then sits heavily, eyes shut, breathing hard, the crease in his forehead warning Athos that it won’t take much now for Porthos to not be able to get out of bed for days. Athos hurries to get the trousers off and helps Porthos lie back down, scooching in with him, letting Porthos hug him close and press his face into Athos’s shoulder. 

“Ok,” Athos says, drawing it out this time, running his hands over Porthos’s shoulders, through his hair, holding him. “Alright?”

Porthos grunts what might be a yes. Athos waits, but Porthos starts to snore. Athos laughs and waits for Porthos’s arms to relax a little so he can get up and go do his teeth.

In the morning Porthos is still sleeping when Athos gets up, the little lines around his eyes telling Athos that he’s tired and needs the rest. Athos is careful not to disturb him as he gets dressed, he has practice. He finds Constance in the kitchen with coffee and they make breakfast together, talking quietly. Athos puts things out for breakfast and puts on more coffee and then sees Constance off, then hovers in the kitchen wondering whether to leave a note. Porthos won’t thank him, but the others won’t thank him, he’s sure, if he lets them wake Porthos and then Porthos doesn’t feel good because of it. He’s still trying to decide when Aramis comes through after his little daughter. She looks wide awake and says good morning, running over to hug Athos’s knees. Aramis looks mostly asleep, his hair’s an absolute bird’s nest, and he just grunts at Athos. 

“Coffee and stuff is out, make yourselves at home, feel free to go see the horses,” Athos says, wondering if maybe he could say something and Porthos would never know.

“Horses!” Francis says, too loud and keeping it up in her excitement. 

Athos sighs and resigns himself to being late for work, heading back up the stairs. Sure enough Porthos is awake, up on an elbow, looking confused. Athos sits on the side of the bed and touches his cheek to get his attention, kissing his other cheek when he turns. Porthos sits up and leans, folding himself into Athos’s arms. 

“Mm?” Athos hums in question. 

“’m’okay,” Porthos says. “Feel like I didn’t sleep at all.”

“You did too much yesterday and didn’t take a proper nap,” Athos says. 

“Right. Having a go. Making me feel great Ath,” Porthos says. 

“Ok, sorry. I didn’t mean to have a go,” Athos says. “Little bit frustrated.”

“Isn’t fair to be. What was I meant to do?” Porthos says. 

“Yeah alright. Let me tell them not to disturb you this morning?” Athos asks, knowing the answer even before Porthos shakes his head. “At least take a nap. Oh, tell you what. Come down to me at twelve, I can say I need you for some bits, you can stretch out on the sofa in my office, you’ve slept there before?”

“Alright,” Porthos says. “Don’t…”

“I won’t tell them anything, darling,” Athos says, shutting his eyes. “I’m not ever going to say anything that I haven’t okayed with you first, you know that.”

“I know,” Porthos whispers. 

“Maybe you could go back to sleep, now, until something else wakes you?” Athos suggests. 

“Maybe. Gonna stay in bed a bit at least,” Porthos says. 

“Alright. Do you want anything before I go? I have a meeting five minutes ago,” Athos admits. 

“Go, go,” Porthos says, sitting up, lying down again. He doesn’t look awful. Athos smiles and Porthos smiles in return, so Athos goes. 

Aramis and Francis have gone back to the livingroom, door shut, so Athos slips out and rushes down to the office, apologizing to Johnny who has the computer set up and has just apologized again for Athos’s absence from the meeting. Johnny gets him a cup of coffee and Athos sits down, catching himself up quickly with what’s going on. He has another meeting after that one and then he’s just polishing up a case for court later. Porthos turns up at eleven thirty looking a little the worse for wear but again very happy. He checks Athos isn’t in a meeting remotely before coming over and dropping a kiss in Athos’s hair, wandering to the sofa and sitting heavily, rubbing at his face. He’s crying. He’s ignoring it so Athos does, too, getting up and fetching a blanket and helping Porthos settle himself. 

“You’re not too worked up to sleep?” Athos asks, smiling at Porthos’s smile. 

“’m’kay,” Porthos mutters, tangling his fingers in Athos’s shirt, eyes closed. 

“Good. Go to sleep.”

Porthos does, for once, and Athos is free to go next door and meet Samara, who’s the barrister handling the case later. She asks after Porthos and frowns when Athos smiles so Athos has to tell her all the news and she threatens to come for dinner tonight until Athos points out Porthos is already overwhelmed. She says she’s coming Friday no matter what, then sweeps out with the case and the last minute notes and Athos’s luck and hope. They need to win this one, it’ll hurt if they lose. Not them, well it will hurt them but mostly it will hurt the family who will be broken apart. Athos turns his attention to the rest of his work and breaks for lunch just as Porthos begins to stir. He joins Athos in the breakroom ten minutes later, sitting on the sofa with him and resting against his side, head on his shoulder. Athos finishes his sandwich and the chapter of his book he’s reading. 

“Are you ok?” he asks. 

“Just about,” Porthos says. “Really tired. I want to go back up, d’Artagnan and Aramis are both gonna have to go this evening, I want to make the most of everything. Can you leave a bit early?”

“Mm, I’ve got about three more hours of stuff I have to do though,” Athos says. Porthos nods and rubs his face. “Might help to go for a short walk? Fresh air, get moving. You’ll feel a bit better and you’ll sleep better tonight. You could do some drawing with Francis after?”

“Nice ideas,” Porthos says, yawning, eyes closing. Athos laughs and nudges him gently. “Feel like shit.”

“I know.”

“Walk. Drawing. You’ll be home then?”

“Probably. If I’m not, come get me. Come get me earlier if you need me. We’ll manage,” Athos says. 

Porthos nods and gets up, wandering out. Athos watches him go, worried but not too worried. He knows Porthos will be fine, a walk really will help, it always does. He goes back to his files and papers. He has to go out for a bit and his heart beats the whole time he’s not in the office in case Porthos needs him but he gets no texts or calls and there are no messages when he gets back. He doesn’t worry, he finishes up three and a half hours later and heads back upstairs, not worried at all that Porthos hasn’t come for him. When he’s tired Porthos likes Athos close, he probably would have… Athos follows soft voices to the kitchen and finds Aramis and d’Artagnan and Francis around the table, playing Happy Families with cards Aramis brought, keeping their voices quiet. They greet him, still quietly, and Francis gets up to pull him through to the living-room, shushing him loudly and tiptoeing. She shows him Porthos, on his back on the floor, head back, fast asleep. Francis giggles when Porthos lets out a little snore, looking up at Athos, pleased with herself. Athos smiles down at her and picks her up. 

“Thank you for staying so quiet,” Athos says, kissing her cheek. 

“That’s ok,” Francis says. “He fell asleep being the dragon. He was supposed to try and catch us but he just fell asleep.”

“That sounds very dragon like to me,” Athos says. “Do you want to help me wake him up? We do it nicely and gently.”

Francis nods so Athos lets her come with him and rub Porthos’s arm, resting her head on his chest. Athos wakes him up quietly, eventually Porthos stirs sluggishly. He turns his head with a huge yawn, startling Francis and setting her giggling again, wrapping her arms around him as best she can. Porthos absently ruffles her hair and yawns again, smiling at Athos and reaching to touch his cheek. 

“You’re home,” Porthos murmurs. 

“Mm, worried when you didn’t come find me,” Athos grumbles. Porthos smiles wider. “You fell asleep lying on the floor playing at being a dragon.”

“Ha, did I?” Porthos says. “Oops. I’m sorry, kitten, did I ruin the game?”

“Nope,” Francis says. “You were the best dragon. We had to tiptoe about FOR REAL it was so fun. Then Dad says we had to play cards quietly. Then Athos came home and he was noisy and woke you up but it wasn’t me I was good.”

“You were perfect,” Porthos says. “Um… am I… up?”

“Up,” Athos confirms. 

Porthos scoops Francis up as he goes, getting to his feet with her scooped against his chest then over a shoulder, making her laugh and laugh, hanging onto him. Athos gets to his feet too and rests a hand in Porthos’s back for a moment, reassuring himself. Porthos heads through to the kitchen and he and Francis make dinner before they all drive to the station. Aramis starts to cry, on the station, as if his heart’s breaking. Francis comes and sits on the bench with Athos, eyes wide, tucking her hand into his and leaning into him. 

“It’s ok,” Athos says. “Those two just haven’t seen each other for a bit and they’re both very dramatic.”

Porthos hugs Aramis and cries too, and then hugs d’Artagnan and cries some more, and then hugs Aramis for a long time until Aramis can stop crying. There’s never a hope of Porthos stopping crying, Athos thinks, lips twitching. He’s going to cry until they’re flooded in. Athos gets up and lifts Francis into her father’s arms and he hugs her tight a moment before hugging Athos and then taking a deep steadying breath. 

“Don’t be a stranger,” Aramis says, voice quivering. 

“Never. We’ve got a duty to our niece, now,” Athos says. “I’m actually in London a fair bit so we can meet up, get coffee. Porthos won’t be, you’ll have to come down here to see him no you are not going to London Porthos and no it will not become a regular thing you are not going to London every day to visit Aramis.”

d'Artagnan starts to laugh but ends up crying, so Athos hugs him for a while and promises to keep in touch with him too, even though, as d’Artagnan wails, he doesn’t have a baby. Athos sighs as the dramatic lot of them say their last goodbyes and then board the train, waving out of the window. Porthos stands hunched in his coat until the train is gone, no longer even heard and smiles softly at Athos. Athos lifts his chin stubbornly.

“C’mere, you big softy,” Porthos says, holding out an arm. 

Athos goes and leans into him, clinging on tight, sobbing until he can’t breathe, making a right fool of himself. Porthos rubs his shoulders and shushes him and laughs at him but doesn’t try and get him to stop, even encourages him. Porthos, Athos knows, thinks crying is good for you. Athos takes a shuddering breath eventually and manages to stop. He doesn’t let go of Porthos though. Porthos hugs him and tucks him under and arm and leads him to the car, clipping him in on the passenger side and leaning in to kiss him and kiss him before going around to the driver’s side. He leans over to hug Athos again before starting off, whistling to himself. 

“Why aren’t you crying?” Athos asks, sniffing back a renewed wave of tears. 

“Eh,” Porthos says, grinning. “Didn’t like them lot that much anyway.”

“You’re not commuting to London every day to visit,” Athos says, definitely still crying. “You will get sick.”

“Nope, definitely not doing that,” Porthos says, still far too cheerful. 

Athos is too sad and congested from crying to work it out. He lays his head on Porthos’s arm and closes his eyes, letting the world fall away to just him and Porthos. 

 

VII

Athos gets home on Friday kind of exhausted and fed up. He worked late and they’ve not managed to settle a particularly heart-breaking case out of court, which means putting a god damn child through a court case which always god damn sucks. He slams the front door and is not happy to be met by an overly cheerful, bouncy, energized Porthos flinging himself into the hallway and engulfing Athos in a hug. Especially when he somehow pulls back with Athos’s tie and jacket in his hold, tossing them aside and already working the buttons of Athos’s shirt, pulling that off too. Before Athos can much protest he finds himself shoved into a hoody and Porthos’s fingers on his flies. 

“Get off,” Athos says, too sharp. Porthos stops at once. 

“Oops. Grouchy Athos. Didn’t notice I’m too happy! Put these pyjama bottoms on, now now, come along,” Porthos says, jostling at Athos and pushing grey joggers at him. 

“I’m hungry and tired please leave me alone,” Athos says. He puts the pyjamas on though – they’re the comfy soft ones. He heads for the kitchen. Porthos trails after him, humming, and shows him where dinner is. 

“I already ate,” Porthos says, passing Athos his plate. “Come through to the living-room.”

“Alright, in a minute,” Athos says. 

Porthos heads off happily and Athos retreats to the bedroom shutting the door firmly on Porthos’s enthusiasm and cheer. He’s glad Porthos is happy but man he must’ve eaten a ton of sugar or drunk a lake of coffee or something to have him that hopped up and Athos is not in the mood for that. What he is in the mood for is some quiet, some alone time. He eats sitting on the bed, his reading glasses in place so he can pay half attention to the Terry Pratchett novel Porthos has on the go right now, taken from Porthos’s side table. Porthos leaves him alone for about half an hour then pushes the door open, leaning there, trying to be quiet. Athos can see though that he’s far from calm, his grin is too big and his fingers are tapping on his thigh. 

“You okay?” Porthos asks. Athos nods. “Bad day?” Athos nods again. “Want to be alone?” Athos nods, pointedly, not looking up from his book. He can tell that Porthos is just grinning harder. “Aw, Ath please. Come on, just for a bit? Please? For me?”

“Go away,” Athos says, determined to sulk and be grumpy and get some peace. 

“Please.”

“I’m going to knock your teeth out,” Athos snaps, then sighs. “Fine.”

He gets up and goes to walk out the door but just gets engulfed in another hug. 

“Sorry,” Porthos says. “You walked into me I couldn’t help it.”

He lets Athos go and leads him to the living-room. Athos stares. There’s a projector set up and Aramis and d’Artagnan are sat on another living-floor the other side of the projected screen. They’ve both got glasses of wine and d’Artagnan is less sat and more sprawled, hair loose, cheeks pink. There’s a snakes and ladders game set up on their side and Porthos’s side is a nest of duvet, cushions, snacks. 

“Games night,” Porthos says, happily, folding himself down into the nest he waves to Aramis and d’Artagnan. “I fetched him for us, guys. He’s sad.”

“I thought I was grouchy,” Athos grouches, flopping next to Porthos and nuzzling into his shoulder, giving up his bad mood. If Porthos is going to call him ‘sad’ he can be a tiny bit sociable. “Hi guys.”

“Porthos is a genius,” d’Artagnan drawls, all Welsh lilt and tipsy warmth. “Athos! I love you, man, I missed you.”

“Hi d’Artagnan,” Athos says. “What are you guys playing?”

“Snakes,” Aramis says, trying to show Athos and accidentally tipping up the board. “Oops.”

“Oops,” Porthos mocks, snorting. “Yeah right.”

“Was an accident,” Aramis says, wide eyes and innocence. 

“An ‘accident’,” Porthos says, nodding. “Nothing to do with you being a LOSER!” 

d’Artagnan cackles wildly and launches himself at Aramis, hugging him. Porthos laughs and touches the wall, frowning a tiny bit. He pulls his hand back and wraps his arms around Athos. 

“So that’s why I’m necessary,” Athos murmurs, kissing Porthos’s arm where it’s against his face. “Feeling left out?”

“You’re necessary because you’re necessary,” Porthos says, then grins. “And I had no one to hug, yeah.”

“It’s been so sad,” Aramis says, hair sticking out of d’Artagnan’s strangle hold, hair fuzzy madly. “He hasn’t had any wine either, you have no wine.”

Athos opens his mouth to refute that, remembers Porthos is Not Drinking after That Time and shuts his mouth again, trying not to laugh. Porthos gets his fingers into Athos’s ticklish spots and Athos squirms and bites Porthos gently, then kisses him to promise not to tell. Or share the photos. He laughs again unable to help himself, this time Porthos just ruffles his hair. He’s setting up a connect four thing and Athos watches, sleepy, as the other three play. Porthos is oddly intent about it and gets inordinately smug when he wins. It takes Athos an hour to realise that a.) the guys are betting on these stupid games and b.) Porthos is cheating. 

“How on earth do you cheat at connect bloody four?” Athos says. 

Too loudly – Aramis and d’Artagnan get up in arms and the whole house of cards Porthos has built topples in laughter and chaos as Aramis tries to knock over the game from the other side of a computer screen. Athos decides it’s bed time and sends them all off sternly, making them all laugh more. Porthos lies on his back and smiles and smiles, the computer screen now just showing Porthos’s Skype page. Athos spots his own name covered in heart emojis and lies on top of Porthos, sighing. 

“Better?” Porthos asks. “I didn’t make it worse?”

“No,” Athos says. 

“No you’re not better?”

“Both,” Athos says, then grudgingly admits mostly the latter. “I feel more grounded in my life. It’s really hard to come home sometimes. To be made to feel better and be surrounded by wonderful things.”

“Yeah,” Porthos says. 

Athos knows that he understands, from both sides of things. Porthos has felt the resentment of people trying to help being able to check out while he’s stuck, and he’s also felt the guilt and sadness at being able to check out while leaving others stuck. Athos rubs Porthos’s belly and gets a giggle. 

“Getting fat,” Porthos says. 

“Immensely,” Athos says, patting Porthos’s stomach which is soft but not fat enough to be a comfortable pillow yet. 

“I’ll work on it,” Porthos promises. “Get the fattest ever so you can use me as a bed.”

“How do I love you this much?” Athos asks, irritated by it as much as he’s touched. Porthos laughs a bit wildly and rolls them about the living-floor until Athos pokes and prods him into stillness. “Carry me to bed. The one I have to put up with until you turn yourself into one.”

“Yes, sir,” Porthos says, trying to salute and managing to hit Athos. “Oops sorry.”

He does, indulgently and ridiculously, carry Athos to bed. It’s wonderful. And game night becomes a staple of coming home, Porthos determined to keep in touch but mostly terrible at it. Between the four of them they manage to Skype an evening or two most weeks, just about. Sometimes one or the other them is missing, but Athos notices that Aramis and d’Artagnan make an effort to keep Porthos company. Athos knows they’re doing this because sometimes he’ll get back and Porthos will be quietly drawing or napping on the sofa in front of the projector, Aramis or d’Artagnan working on the other end or going about the house mostly ignoring Porthos and the laptop. Porthos either hasn’t noticed or ignores it. 

 

VIII

Athos likes Aramis’s kitchen. He comes down to London a couple of times a month and recently it’s become habit to sit here, drinking tea or coffee (or both) and catch up with Aramis (and sometimes d’Artagnan, who also seems to drop in and out). d'Artagnan’s still made no choices but he seems to be spending most of his time volunteering with a local homeless project and in the fundraising and tech office of a project doing work in the Gaza strip to make music as Palestinians, pro musicians and just whoever’s around, publishing it to raise awareness, teaching. He seems happy enough if a little bored and un-challenged. Athos isn’t worried. Nor is he worried about Aramis who hums and rushes about Athos sorting things for his church and projects they run and looking after Francis. He sits down now with a wide smile. 

“And how’s Porthos?” he asks, as Athos comes to the end of a boring and meandering story about a case. 

“Good,” Athos says. “Bored. Looking for a new thing to do now that he’s nearly done with The Tempest.”

“Oh that’s next week! Shall we come down?” Aramis asks. “He always avoids answering.”

“Dunno, ask him,” Athos says, uncomfortable. 

“I have. I’m not asking you to break a confidence Athos, would he or would he not like us just turning up?” 

“Honestly no idea,” Athos says, which is mostly true. He knows Porthos is worried about being watched in case ‘everything goes wrong and I fall off the stage or cry or forget all my lines or accidentally really kill someone with magic and have to get taken away by the magic-police’. Athos has seen a few rehearsals – none of those things are going to happen. Well, Porthos did fall off the stage once. Athos smirks. 

“What’s that expression?” Aramis asks. 

“Nothing. Tell me about something else,” Athos says. 

Aramis acquiesces to the change in subject with bad grace and Athos hears him asking Porthos over Skype twice before he’s back in London and back in Aramis’s kitchen and being asked again himself. He sighs. He has asked Porthos about this himself and gotten about as straight an answer as Aramis has. 

“I don’t know,” he admits, seriously enough. “I think he’d like it but he’s nervous and when he’s nervous he gets cross so don’t be surprised if he yells at you for turning up.”

“We’re turning up then?” Aramis asks, perking up. 

“You’re turning up. I’m not gonna be the one to break the news to him though,” Athos says. 

“Helpful. Thanks,” Aramis says, laughing. He’s happy though, Athos can tell. 

Maybe at being trusted. Athos is trusting him, and d’Artagnan. Trusting them to be nice and supportive (of course they will be), to know not to laugh, to be able to deal with Porthos possibly not having the best reaction to them coming. Athos finds he genuinely isn’t worried about any of it. He smiles into his coffee. 

“You know he’s going to start being grouchy about being left out of these kitchen things,” Aramis says. “Especially if we talk about him and make plans.”

“Mm,” Athos agrees. “Just promise to text me when he shows up here and try and at least keep him overnight.”

Aramis laughs and refuses to do either of those things, rightly pointing out that Porthos is fully grown up and can do as he pleases. Athos makes a face and finishes his coffee, heading off to get the train. Porthos is waiting on the other end, sitting on the platform looking like he’s taken root there. Athos waits for Porthos to get up but when he doesn’t he sits next to Porthos.

“Ran out of steam,” Porthos says, wrapping an arm around Athos’s shoulders. “Dunno what happened. Take me home?”

Athos stands, Porthos holding on and laughing, nuzzling into Athos and admiring his strength and hugging him and generally not helping them get anywhere. Eventually they make it to the Landrover and Porthos lets Athos go, walking under his own steam and stopping from cuddling Athos every few seconds. He falls asleep on the way home and Athos leaves him to nap in the car, much to Porthos’s irritation. He comes up an hour later and grumps at Athos until Athos feeds him dinner and promises to sit in the living-room so Porthos can stretch out on the sofa with his head in Athos’s lap. He’s happy then, though he does also very softly admit to being a bit jealous and sad about Athos spending time with Aramis in London without him. Athos strokes his hair and listens to him and makes idle promises. He tells Porthos that they’re idle but Porthos asks for them anyway so Athos provides. 

The day before Porthos’s first performance Athos has an epic panic attack and Porthos can’t stop god damned laughing at him for it even though Athos is stuck prostrate on the kitchen floor unable to stop hyperventilating, dizzy and nauseas and having the most Not Fun. Porthos sits with him, a hand resting on his chest, and just laughs himself silly about Athos being the one to panic about Porthos’s performance. Athos tries to deny that’s what he’s panicky over but firstly he can’t talk because you know, breathing, and secondly that is exactly what he’s panicky over so it’s a pointless enterprise. He panics again the next morning and Porthos is a little more sympathetic especially when he gets sick to his stomach and can’t stop crying. Porthos sits on the bathroom floor with Athos in his arms, hushing him. 

“What time are Aramis and d’Artagnan arriving?” Porthos asks, stroking Athos’s hair. It’s been half an hour and he’s mostly ignoring Athos’s freaking out by this point. “Can you talk?”

“Sure,” Athos pants, gasping for breath and coughing until he retches. 

“Right. I’ll call d’Artagnan.”

“Text. Please,” Athos says, pushing into Porthos’s arms until they tighten and crying harder in the hopes it’ll be over sooner if he wears himself out. 

Eventually his body relaxes and his mind stops trying to send him into ever renewing spirals of anxiety. He shuts his eyes and droops into Porthos, resting. Porthos calls Aramis and suggests he and d’Artagnan and Francis go to the pub in the town for lunch and meet them at the theatre. He doesn’t give them a reason but Athos can tell they’re pressing. Eventually Porthos says he’s nervous and needs to lie down and have a bit of peace and gets solicitude and apologies for pressing. 

“Thanks,” Athos whispers.

“You’re ridiculous, but I love you despite it,” Porthos says. “Actually I just love you. You want a nap?”

“There’s not time.”

“I’ll strap you in the Landrover and only wake you at the last minute,” Porthos says, with some relish. 

Athos sighs but nods and lets Porthos do just that, exacting his revenge. 

 

IX

“I’m in London oops,” Porthos says, singsong, when Athos answers the phone. 

“Alright. You held out a long time,” Athos says, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder and finishing filing things. “I’m just done for the day I could come up too?”

“No,” Porthos says. “Not fair, this is my turn to leave you out.”

“Charming. Alright,” Athos says, not minding a bit. “Are you seeing Aramis?”

“Um, well, he’s not actually home. I didn’t tell him I was coming, him and Frankie are visiting d’Artagnan and Constance in Oxford. Aramis sent me to the church to get a key from Baz,” Porthos says. 

“Oh dear,” Athos says, locking his office and heading upstairs. “You sure you don’t want company?”

“No. I’m going to Oxford in the morning.”

“Oh god you’re going to be so sick.”

“I know. I want to do things, I’ve got to start doing things at some point, you know.”

“Do you? Why?”

“Dunno.”

“Ok, I’ll get work done so I can take some time off,” Athos says. 

“Thanks babes.”

“’babes’. God I hate that. Call me?”

Porthos promises, then fulfils the promise within a couple of hours to chat while he cooks, and then again at bed time to chat while he does his teeth and lies in bed. Athos indulges him, amused and kind of liking that Porthos isn’t, in the end, any good at leaving him out of things. He thinks maybe when Porthos is with Constance and Aramis and d’Artagnan that’ll change, but nope. The next two days Porthos calls him often and puts him on speaker and basically Athos might not be allowed to be there but he’s all-but there. It totally helps with getting a lot of work out of the way so he can take time off. Aramis ends up driving Porthos home, after two days in Oxford and one in London, and staying the night with them. When he goes Athos waits until Porthos is done crying and then looks him over. 

“Yeah I’m about ready to sleep for a week,” Porthos says, grimacing. 

“Mm hmm,” Athos says, unimpressed but not unsympathetic. 

“I’ve had a headache for the past two days,” Porthos says. 

“Oh yeah?” Athos says. 

“Stop it and be nice to me,” Porthos says. 

“Go back to bed, I’ll get some work and join you,” Athos says. 

Porthos spends ten days in bed after that, three of them turning himself inside out from a migraine that won’t quit. It doesn’t discourage him though. Two months later Athos gets another phonecall from London, this time at least Aramis is home. Porthos stays only a day but still comes home tired, spending a few days in bed. He’s not picked up anything to do since the am drams ended and he doesn’t want to do another panto season with them. He and d’Artagnan spend a lot of time commiserating over having nothing to do, until December. 

 

X

d'Artagnan, Constance, Aramis and Francis are down for the weekend making chaos at Athos’s house and Athos is hiding in the bedroom reading for a bit when Porthos bursts into the room and collapses on the bed, both hands covering his face, crying. Not any good kind of crying. He curls into a ball pushing his face against Athos’s thigh and clings to his leg, trembly all over and just… crying. Athos stares, too surprised to do anything. Aramis comes after Porthos but seeing him with Athos just shuts the door. 

“’mis,” Athos says softly. Aramis opens the door again and pokes his head in. “What?”

“d’Artagnan’s got a job,” Aramis says. “He was telling us about it and Porthos bolted, I thought he was feeling sick I know he does with a headache sometimes. He’s had a mild one all day.”

A side effect of Porthos spending time in London is that Aramis knows a little more about Porthos than Porthos particularly likes people knowing. Not that Porthos has minded much, Athos thinks he’s even talked a bit to Aramis. Athos nods and Aramis shuts the door again, smiling. Athos frowns at that – Aramis should not be happy, Porthos is still a mess. Athos settles a hand in Porthos’s hair and decides to just wait for a while. He manages ten minutes of that then sets about disengaging Porthos so he can lie down beside him. Porthos doesn’t take much disengaging he just covers his face again, lying imp against the mattress. He’s all relaxed and without any tension, Athos pulls his unresisting body in to hold him, cradling him. 

“Shh,” Athos murmurs, stroking his hair. “I’m here, you’re ok. Um, I’m going to guess that you’re shocked? Mm, probably surprised. Aw, Porthos. Shhh.”

Porthos eventually quiets, just breathing hard. 

“Did you panic?” Athos asks. Porthos shakes his head. “Unexpected emotions?” Porthos shakes his head again. “Right I’m thinking of myself. Um… maybe… darling, I’d guess grief if I had to name that.”

“I just…” Porthos stifles a sob and swallows hard a few times. “I forgot.”

“That he’d be going back to work?” 

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “And I… can’t.”

“You said you’d have to ‘start doing things again’, a few months back. You do realise that you already do things? That working around a disability isn’t… I love you so much. If you want to work I have no doubt you’ll find a way to make that happen,” Athos says. “Just like you make visiting Aramis work for you. I noticed that you strategized last time you went to minimize the fallout.”

“Just get so tired,” Porthos whispers. 

“I know. We always said that you didn’t have to work, not that you couldn’t. We haven’t thought about what you might do if you did want to work,” Athos says. 

“I don’t want to work,” Porthos says. Athos laughs, unable to help himself. “I just forgot that… you know when someone gets ill and it’s just, for a brief moment you can identify with them and you can complain together and you understand each other. But they always get better. We don’t get to get better.”

“Healing and being better are relative,” Athos says. “Everyone has stuff. Porthos, this is what you’ve told me. You know all this. Do you want it repeated for you? I can.”

“No, I know. I just freaked out,” Porthos says, shifting, finally taking back control of his body. “Maybe a little panic attack.”

“A small one,” Athos says, dryly. 

“I don’t have panic attacks. You have panic attacks,” Porthos says. 

“Clearly,” Athos says. “Everyone can have them, I just have them for fun. Do you want to go be sociable?”

“God no, not in the slightest.”

“Good,” Athos says, stretching out on his back so Porthos can rest against him. They lie quietly for a bit. “What’s d’Artagnan’s job?”

“Did you know he trained as a medic after we left? He’s going to do a course off of that and be a nurse,” Porthos says. “He’s excited about it. God knows why, the state of the NHS right now. Something about saving the world, like all you lot.”

“You save the world too,” Athos says, turning his head to kiss Porthos, who’s waiting for it with a grin. “Oi, don’t make me be all validating just for fun.”

“It is fun though. He’s moving, Constance got a better offer up north and more people up there are doing stuff on trans and queer studies, so they’re off as soon as d’Artagnan retrains. I can’t go that far,” Porthos says. 

“Oh,” Athos says, eyes filling with tears. “Um, sorry,” he says, rubbing his face. 

“We can drive now and then, and they’ll come to London and to visit us, and there’s Skype for games nights. People’s lives change, we’ll all live close again one day,” Porthos says. “Still sad, we only just got back in touch.”

“Yeah,” Athos says. 

“You were having nice quiet time and I came and was dramatic all over you,” Porthos says, which makes Athos laugh. “I know you don’t care, I’m just… acknowledging.”

“Have you been on Tumblr all day again?” Athos asks and laughs when he gets a guilty silence in reply. 

“You gonna kiss me for laughing at me?” Porthos asks, so Athos does. 

He waits until Porthos is napping to go out and congratulate d’Artagnan. He sits with him and Constance drinking wine while Aramis puts Francis to bed. Constance’s new job sounds amazing and Athos finds that he is, afterall, more happy than sad, and not really worried about whether they’ll stay in touch at all. They’ve managed from three different places over the past few months, they have good habits of calling and Skyping and texting. It’s going to be fine. Porthos even comes and joins them for a bit and drinks some wine. He’s a lightweight these days though and ends up tipsy and giggling and kisses d’Artagnan on the cheek and Athos in a not safe for work way and then, to everyone’s amusement, kisses Constance on the lips. She gets into it, also a little tipsy. d'Artagnan doesn’t seem to mind and Athos certainly doesn’t. 

“Now you definitely won’t forget me, all the way up in the Shetlands of wherever the hell you’re going,” Porthos says, pulling away, grinning widely into Constance, who grins right back. 

Yeah, Athos isn’t worried at all.


End file.
